Tabloid
by Godforsaken
Summary: Paneknofret and Isabelle are two vampires, one the fledgling of the other. They have the good fortune to attend Hogwarts and report on the goings-on of the school year to a vampire newsletter. PG-13 for behavior of wacky old vampires.
1. In Which There Is Much Description, and ...

Disclaimer: We do not own Harry Potter and all its subthings, including characters, Hogwarts, the Hogwarts Express, the different houses, the word/concept "Muggle" and any other stuff that The Great JKR made up, because she made it up. *rereads sentence* Ah! Repetition! Umanyway. We do not own Knopf Guides, any stuff in Paris, or King Narmer. We do own Paneknofret, Isabelle, and Khet Bint Nebt. 

Author's Note: This is going to be *dun dun dunnn* a semi-serious fic. *collective gasp* Yeah, we know. Anyway, please tell us if its getting too obnoxiously wordy, and only do that if you've got some idea of the difference between wordiness and descriptiveness, and Anne Rice rules. 

Tabloid

by Godforsaken Celebrinel Hatshepsut and Lantarmiel Calenchill

*~*Prologue*~*

The sun slipped down over the horizon, and the city of lights was embraced in a deep blackness, which it fought off as best it could.

In a blocked-off room underneath Paris, near Gilbert's false tomb, the lid of a large stone Egyptian-style sarcophagus scraped to the side. A bone-white, delicately featured face came into view. It bore a slight resemblance to the statues of Queen Hatshepsut.

However, the sarcophagus' inhabitant predates the great Queen by some fifteen hundred years.

The ancient vampire Paneknofret stepped delicately out of the great stone coffin and slid the lid back into place, carefully, so as to avoid closing it on her knee-length black hair. She looked down at the effigy of herself on the lid and smiled. Ah, carved in stone she still looked Egyptian.

There was a slight click, and the lid of the other coffin flew back. Though more of a traditional vampire's coffin—black-laquered, tapered at the ends into a vaguely human shape, with blood-red script on the lid—it contained an ever-so-slightly less traditional-looking vampire.

Isabelle pushed her wavy red hair out of her face as she sat up, and sent a ferocious glare towards Paneknofret as an evening greeting.

The five-thousand-year-old blood hunter smiled back serenely. Love you too, darling dear. Good evening.

I'd like to take a shower before we hunt, her French fledgling replied.

Paneknofret nodded agreeably, adjusting her black pashmina, and set off through the catacombs. Isabelle grumbled for no particular reason and followed, the noise of her coffin banging shut echoing through the underground of Paris.

_Two hundred fifty years old, and she _still _can't get over being an ex-noblewoman,_ Paneknofret thought loudly.

Stop harping on that. The Revolution's over, Isabelle snarled, her ever-present aura of graciousness lessening somewhat. The amused Paneknofret kept walking, silent.

When the two entered their extensive apartment (a typical abode for their kind), they were greeted by the sight of a pure white envelope covered in curly blue handwriting resting peacefully on the wine-colored carpet. Paneknofret bent down in a catlike movement and picked up the letter, smiling. Isabelle closed the door behind her and leaned over Paneknofret's shoulder, peering at the return address, Khet Binet Nebet, through Paneknofret's jeweled fingers.

"Did we get accepted?" 

Paneknofret glanced at her impatient fledgling and slowly, very slowly, opened the envelope, removed the paper from it, unfolded itall this she took her own sweet time with, just to needle Isabelle, to prove that haste or lack of it did not make the slightest difference anymore. They silently skimmed the letter from Khet Binet Nebet. 

Khet Binet Nebet is Egyptian for "Every Evil Thing." It is also the name of an irregularly disseminated vampire newspaper that is usually regarded as a tabloid. It's marketed as pure fiction, and extremely inconsistent, meaning that it doesn't have regular hired writers—the staff consists of two managers, one of whom is from the illustrious 18th Dynasty of Egypt, who stop it from dying completely. It does not come out on a schedule—only as often as they have enough interesting material to fill up a slim issue. Since vampires are solitary creatures, and are into neither organizing things for their species nor doing business with them, it has been years since an issue was completed. The newsletter was created on a whim by two vampires with nothing else to do during the high point of yellow journalism, with no purpose whatsoever. However, vampires are often bored, and its popularity is in fact 100% due to the fact that writing for it is a fun recreational activity. It gives the writers something to do when the pointlessness of existence gets to them.

The letter was as follows:

Paneknofret and Isabelle:

We are quite happy that you wish to cover the goings-on at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this upcoming school year. It seems as if much could happen in the next several months, so we have already arranged for you to be there. The both of you are Ravenclaw 5th years, and thy are as such as we discussed, and already drawn into the records of the school (the security is horrendous). You know where to send thy stories. Good luck.

The Management at Khet Binet Nebet

Wonder of wonders, something to do! Isabelle said, a smile crossing her face. Paneknofret's response was somewhat more exuberant, hugging her taller fledgling around the waist as she rattled off a rather impressive list of obsolete dieties to be thanked. She dropped the letter in the fire, kissed Isabelle on the cheek, and went to change her clothes.

Once her maker was safely out of sight, Isabelle jumped in the air and went very quietly, before heading towards the bathroom.

A/N: We love random little cameos, and need to be able to fill up the full school, which could tax our imaginations somewhat. So if you have an original (meaning original!) character, put a description in your review and we'll try to use him/her/it. If you don't, please review anyway. It makes us feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Like tea. *hugs mug of tea protectively* My preciousss

*hem* Sorry. *points quietly to review button*


	2. In Which Isabelle Meets the Queen, and P...

A/N: Yes, a second prologue. And short. Terribly sorry.

Disclaimer: Don't own HP, Paris or any of its landmarks, the Barrowdowns, or Pumas.

*~*Second Prologue*~*

It was the very last week in August, and Isabelle and Paneknofret were sitting on the stone benches of Pont Neuf, discussing the various preparations still to be made before their departure—not the least of which was feeding their goldfish, Iarminuialwen Novwilwarinewen Vortellumawen (Bob for short), whom they had bought after spending an entire day on barrowdowns.com. 

We need more sunblock, suggested Isabelle.

Paneknofret agreed, and added: And we still need someone to feed Bob.

She stiffened up as she felt another vampiric presence coming up the bridge towards them. A very strong other vampiric presence. A moment later, her mind nearly flew out her ears at the exuberant telepathic message:

_DUDES! HI!_

Paneknofret stood up. Only one vampire was that strong and happy at the same time.

said Isabelle.

Egyptian for Queenie.' It's the first of our line come to visit. I _told_ you she was a happy child.

A shortish, pretty girl of about sixteen with reddish-gold hair came up over the curve of the bridge and waved enthusiastically. She wore a long loose skirt and a white t-shirt, and hot pink Pumas. She was evidently quite old: her skin was a ghostly white; even the freckles that had once graced her snub nose had gone. She lookedcutesy. Isabelle looked at her doubtfully.

That's the Queen?

The red-haired vampire smiled at her. No, honey, not Queen. I'm just the Mother. I was middle class, she announced proudly. She and Paneknofret high-fived, laughing.

_Must. Must. _Isabelle repeated to herself. In history it's always the middle class that makes a difference and makes a country move, Paneknofret invariably said. Isabelle had learned to admit it, but she seriously wasn't looking forward to having someone constantly reminded Paneknofret that she'd been a noble.

The Mother and Paneknofret were talking gaily (Where were you during la Révolution Française? In India; where were you during the American one?) as Isabelle stood respectfully aside and listened. Apparently, the Queen merely wanted to see Paris again. And she wanted somewhere to stay.

I really don't mean to intrude, but would it be possible for me to use your space in the catacombs during daylight? the Queen asked.

Hon, actually, Isabelle and I have to be away for most of this year, and I'll tell you what, you can stay in our apartment provided that you Bob.

Bob. Our goldfish.

Oh. Okay. The Queen turned to Isabelle. So this is your aristocrat fledgling?

Yes, this is Isabelle. She was a noblewoman, but she's still cool.

Pleased to meet you, Isabelle said, starting (barely) to warm up to the exuberant Queen.

Hello, doll! the Queen exclaimed, crushing Isabelle in a hug and kissing her on both cheeks. So you're going to Hogwarts this year?

Yes. We're hoping it'll actually be interesting.

Oh, that place is always interesting—it's just a scream; it's like the Talamasca. Except that it exists. But they're just as badly informed. The Queen started laughing.

Come on, back to our apartment; you have to meet the fish and talk to us, and in a week you'll have Paris all to yourself, Paneknofret interrupted, grabbing the Queen and Isabelle by the arm and heading back towards the Île de la Cité. 

Well, glad we have that figured out, Isabelle said under her breath. Now all we need is more sunblock.

A/N: Read and review, and flames will be used to roast the evil goddamn plotbunnies that are still roaming around in Godforsaken and Lantarmiel's backyards. We don't get it; they didn't die, they didn't evolve, they're still just evil goddamn plotbunnies.


	3. In Which Some More Characters are Introd...

A/N: If you haven't noticed, I write with an overdose of adjectives at times. Other times, I get afflicted with Talking Head syndrome, but I'll try to keep a balance. Tell me in the reviews if I've failed! Thanks, ~Godforsaken 

Disclaimer: Don't own Hogwarts, the Hogwarts Express, etc., King's Cross Station, Martina McBride, The Blind Assassin, Jesus, Mary, Joseph, Isis, the Middle East, or Mary Beth Mayfair, who was very cool. She belongs to Anne Rice, and she was a witch, and she cross-dressed. And thanks to the Archaic English Project for their luffly Maðumisc word-list! (Maðumisc _is_ a conlang, but it's constructed mostly from archaic English, so I'm using it.)

Claimer: Isabelle, Paneknofret, Rakia, and Arden. Ours. Not yours.

Chapter One: Stuff Actually About Hogwarts, like Arrivals and crap

September First

The sun shone high over King's Cross Station, which was packed, as was to be expected, with Muggles, wizards in Muggle clothes, wizards who thought they were in Muggle clothes—and, of course, our two immortal friends. Said friends were less than happy with the sun's insistent high shining.

They slunk their way into an empty compartment on the Hogwarts Express and waited for it to move, listening to the chatter of the mortals as they found their friends and empty seats. Isabelle pulled out a portable CD player and started listening to Martina McBride; Paneknofret buried herself deep in a copy of _The Blind Assassin_, feet in their high-heeled boots propped up on her large trunk.

A couple of other people, younger Hufflepuffs, entered the compartment. Isabelle paid no attention to them whatsoever, and Paneknofret politely, if distantly, introduced her self as Rosemary and Isabelle as Sandra. She returned to her paperback novel, looking a normal, if antisocial, human witch.

And, as usual, time passed. The other students talked and giggled amongst themselves, running in and out of the compartment to talk to their friends. Paneknofret moved only twice, to get different books when she finished the one she was reading; Isabelle moved not at all.

When Isabelle's CD player began giving her trouble, she took her headphones off and dumped the player into her bag, shaking her hair out. The inhabitants of the compartment began pulling their robes on over their Muggle clothing, and the two vampires were invited to play a game of Exploding Snap for candy. They accepted, and won a fair amount, which they gave back.

No, you won it, you eat it, said the second-year girl to Isabelle.

I'll eat at the banquet. I'm really not hungry at all, she insisted.

Well, I just feel ba—

No, take it! I don't want it. 

The girl looked distinctly tempted, but stuck to politeness.

The train lurched to a halt, jarring its occupants. Isabelle took the opportunity to dump her candy into the second year's bag, and she and Paneknofret stood and gathered their belongings. They said not a word until they entered the Great Hall.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Isabelle murmured, looking up at the ceiling where the vivid colors of the sunset were represented.

This place is much nicer than it was in the 1170s, Paneknofret commented quietly. Isabelle glared at her for not mentioning previously that she had been here before, and they made their way through the crowd to the two very end seats of the Ravenclaw table.

They silently watched people through the Sorting, Dumbledore's speeches, and the first ten minutes or so of the meal. Isis, was this boring.

Isabelle looked around at all the pretty mortals, then glared at Paneknofret.

_Knock it off, red bird_, Paneknofret advised mentally. _I'm not up for your attitude at the moment_.

_My skin hurts_, Isabelle offered by way of explanation.

_Mine too. Get used to it, we'll be living in the sun for a while_. Paneknofret put her head down on her folded arms; it was daytime, she was tired. (Actually, it was evening, but she'd been awake all day, so she had ample license to be grumpy.)

Why aren't you eating anything? asked the girl sitting on Isabelle's left. Paneknofret sighed inwardly; while they shouldn't attract too much attention due to the natural vampiric power of being ignored, their powers were weakened in the sun. People so close to them would probably notice oddities. Bother.

Isabelle looked at the girl on her left: a pretty seventh-year girl of apparently Middle Eastern descent, tall, with a headscarf, who seemed nice and intelligent enough. Isabelle could feel that she was laid back, practical, fairly sympathetic, and a bit opinionated. She decided she was worthy of a response, even if it was a false one.

I ate way too much junk on the train, she replied. Then, feeling a little friendly, she added, I'm Sandra d'Apedu, by the way.

Rakia Intisar, the girl replied, shaking hands. Nice meeting you.

Same. Oh, and this is my sister, Rosemary. She nodded at Paneknofret.

was all Paneknofret said before lapsing back into pensive silence. She nearly burst out laughing, however, when the boy sitting next to her asked her the same question Rakia had asked Isabelle. Paneknofret gave him the same answer.

I'm Arden Amadeo, he said, extending his hand.

Rosemary Isadora d'Apedu, she responded, shaking his hand and starting to smile. Arden was a few inches taller than her, but still short by modern standards, and slender, with delicate features, clear gray eyes, and full wavy red-brown hair reaching a few inches past his shoulders. And he was a fifth year as well!

Paneknofret nodded, fidgeting a bit. Yeah, Isadora. But I'll answer to anything up to and including Mary Beth Mayfair, she added. She hadn't met anyone new that she wasn't planning to kill sincewell, Isabelle, actually. Hence the babbling, which she was not happy about.

Arden raised an eyebrow. Can I just stick with Rosemary?

Sure. Oh, n' nice to meet you, she added belatedly.

Nice to meet you too, he said, before his attention was grabbed by someone else.

_Yay! _thought Paneknofret. _This could be fun._

Isabelle tilted her head back, gazing at the enchanted ceiling, and suppressed the urge to sigh dramatically. Paneknofret reached under the table and patted her knee reassuringly, causing her to jump. She glared at her maker. 

_Oh, lighten _up, Paneknofret told her. _We'll find you a nice mortal pet, and something interesting'll happen, n'you'll be happy as a clam._

Isabelle, who had always hated the phrase happy as a clam, endeavored to respond more formally. _And how, pray tell, dost thou know that aught interesting shall occur this year?_

Paneknofret grinned. _Divination is not my baileywick, but I did attend at those who said ere our awaygoing, Alas, I am afeared a doom cometh erelong which none can forfend, which shall split the very earth atwain! Happen it shall prove to be nobbut dwarmy weather, but I an't so cynical that I don't know that, betweentimes, in their blather they speak truth. I gainsay the claim that none can forfend doom; such thoughts are ugsome and insult my selfhood, but I will let the diviners lake. _

Paneknofret could nearly see Isabelle's brain translating. She smiled. _Thou worrit'st oft about nothing at all. If naught interesting happeneth in a fortnight, thou may'st be as upset as thou lik'st._

_I pray thee, shut up_, Isabelle snapped at her maker. _Give me a to adjust, and I'll be perfectly fine._

_Whatever you say, red bird, _Paneknofret shrugged. She curled up again, waiting for the bell to ring so they could trick their roommates and get some damn sleep.

A/N: So sorry this chapter had no point. A bit of plotty stuff should kick in, in the next couple chapters or so we'll be inspired to update faster if you review! And if the thoughts don't show up as italics the way we wrote them, and that causes a problem, than tell us and we'll redo it with tildes.


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